


I'll Be Devastated

by MarigoldWatson



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Family Loss, Hurt Stiles, Please Don't Kill Me, in the arms of my first love, it turned bad so fast, this was originally supposed to be fluffy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-09
Updated: 2015-10-09
Packaged: 2018-04-25 13:43:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4962832
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldWatson/pseuds/MarigoldWatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fic Request: Lydia breaks her ankle pretty badly in a supernatural fight and Stiles takes care of her/helps to keep her mind off of it since they can't get to a hospital immediately for some reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Devastated

**Author's Note:**

> A:N/ Okay so, don't hate me forever. You can completely blame the song "All I Want," by Kodaline for what happens in this story. It ended up taking me in a very different direction. You get the original prompt idea, but with an added bit of, well, plain out pain. I hope you lovelies enjoy. *evil laughter*
> 
> This is my personal warning to you: you may or may not hate me by the end of this.

The irony in finding himself in the counselor's office for the ninth time since his sophomore year was laughable. Almost. If the reason for the constant visits didn't make Stiles feel like a piece of him died every time he sat in the chair. An odd feeling, honestly, since he couldn't imagine feeling any less alive than he already did.

The only thing he could be thankful for was that it wasn't Marin. Stiles didn't think he could handle these weekly visits if he shared these talks with her.

The psychiatrist his father was paying for him to see, paying for something they once again couldn't afford, always made an effort to keep the room free of anything white. Anything that reminded Stiles of the stark comparison of the purity of snow. Stiles was already jittery. His knees bounced while his hands hung loosely in his lap. Silently, Stiles broke in his old habit of counting his fingers. To the casual observer, it might have looked like just another tick Stiles performed to keep his anxiety low. But Stiles knew what it was – a reminder that his nightmare was real.

Off in the distance the sound of the door opening jars him from his thoughts. Stiles can hear the heavy shuffling of loafer feet making their way to the desk. The constant muffled sounds of words rang in his eardrums. His mind muffling out the sound of speech as it pleaded for just a moment of peace. His heart never allowed such a thing and maybe now that agony even joined with the neurons in his head.

"Mr. Stilinski? Hello? Stiles!"

Stiles jerked in the uncomfortable armchair. His elbow slamming into the chipped fake wood of the armrest.

"Yeah," he answered, annoyance thick in his tone.

"I asked how you were doing today."

"Oh, ugh, fine. Just peachy."

Mr. Rostand seemed to disagree. Beady eyes roaming over him, making Stiles fight not to shiver from discomfort.

"I see. How have you been sleeping, Stiles?"

For a moment, Stiles pretends that he didn't hear. But he heard the question. He just didn't want to answer. His sleeping patterns hadn't changed the last few dozen times Mr. Rostand had asked. Stiles's answer wasn't going to change now. He could lie, but the man had a nose like a bloodhound when it came to those sort of things.

Stiles risked a glance up at the stocky frame facing him. Eyes looking up behind long lashes that served as a small shield. Mr. Rostand wasn't so much a fat man; just a large mass of muscle that unfortunately was hidden under years' worth of shitty eating. The dude seriously looked like an ex-linebacker. Large hands opening up Stiles's folder; eyes briefly skimming over notes from their last session. Beads of sweet already forming around the constricted collar of his cap-sleeved button down.

"Are the dreams still as persistent the last time we spoke?"

"Are they supposed to just stop?"

"Perhaps, lessen in severity. Have you been taking the sleep medication I prescribed you?"

A groan left him sounding as tired as he felt.

"No."

"Why?"

"Because it makes me feel like a zombie. Look, dude, if this is going to be another day of twenty questions, I'd like a pass. As riveting as our talks can be-"Stiles moved to get up from his seat. His fingers looping around the strap of his backpack when Mr. Rostand's voice halted him.

"Mr. Stilinski. We're supposed to have that talk today."

Stiles knew what  _talk_ he meant, and he wasn't in the mood to have it. He didn't think there would ever be an okay time to bring it up. His stomach tossed violently as her face flooded his vision. One minute smiling over at him as they drove to school in his jeep. The sun sending her hair into a kaleidoscope of color across the dash. The next, colorless. All signs of life ended. Her soft giggles completely empty and gone. Colorless and dead. Like the rest of her.

Stiles was so many things in that split second: angry. Angry, because why in the ever loving fuck did it have to be her? Why did she have to do this to him? Why wouldn't she just let him save her? Hurt, because he lost the one person that always mattered. He lost the one thing he'd only ever wanted; finding out too late she wanted it too. That's what really hurt the most. To know he had a chance, only to have it taken from him in an instant.

The most overwhelming of all of these was sorrow. He wallowed in it. Bathed in its sweat as it pooled around his body as the sleep paralysis kicked in. Stiles's found it incredibly hard to swallow. The action only making every swallow stick to his throat in clumps.

How could he ever talk about it? When he spared a glance at Mr. Rostand, he realized that today he wouldn't get away with weak excuses. No, today he would force Stiles. Even if it killed him.

* * *

How they'd ended up high in the mountains fighting their way through endless amounts of snow, Stiles didn't know. Well, he did, he just found it completely idiotic.

The pack was searching for an Abominable Snowman, of sorts. A pack of snow were-leopards had come to town and kidnapped Mason Hewitt. The most recent, and only member Stiles semi-trusted, was taken directly from Scott's house. They'd left behind an ominous letter (as all bad guys do). They demanded for Scott to meet them at a specified place and time. In usual Scott fashion he'd been willing to just go ahead and do as the were-leopard pack demanded. Apparently still not learning from past mistakes.

Stiles did what he could to talk him out of it. It wasn't easy. Things with the pack were still tense. Between Malia and Scott, Stiles was low on their list of people they cared to be around. The sad part was, the feeling was mutual.

The crushing weight of being a last resort left a bad taste in Stiles's mouth. He knew that was the truth. Scott wouldn't ever fully confirm it. He didn't really have too, though. Stiles had been his best friend since second grade. There wasn't much Stiles didn't know about Scott.

The only reason he had even agreed to the horrible fucking plan that was before them was because of Lydia. No matter what excuse Stiles threw her way Lydia refused to buy into it. She'd even gone so far as to sit in the passengers' side of his jeep. Checking out her manicure and the roots of her hair.

He could still feel the cold metal of the keys biting into his palm. Gripping them tighter in frustration; lips pursed in a tight line with hands landing at his sides. Stiles hadn't even taken a step towards the jeep, yet Lydia had a smirk the size of Texas stretched across her sugary pink lips.

Losing the last stretch of road five miles out from where the Alpha of the leopard's had marked on their map. They'd been forced to go the rest of the journey on foot.

Stiles briefly remembered a time he and Scott talked about going up to the snow. Enjoying the chance to snowboard together and build a snowman that looked like Coach Finstock. Now, though, as step after step his shoes became heavier with watered down snow, Stiles never wanted to see it again.

Lydia kept close to him. Her calf high boots helping her feet fair far better than his own. Lydia's skirt, regardless of length, left her shivering in her denim jacket.

"Why didn't you wear pants?"

It was just a harmless question. But his grouchy attitude that formulated due to their new weather conditions turned his words sour. So when he received the glare of doom, Stiles wasn't terribly surprised.

"I don't wear pants."

"Well that's not exactly true. You wore pants over to my house two years ago. You've also worn leggings and those are sorta like pants."

"That was one time and I was having an off day. Leggings are also not like pants. The material is way different."

"It's still a pair of pants, and yes, leggings are the same thing. You could've worn either of those items besides wearing that skirt."

"But I didn't wear them. I'm wearing this skirt. End of discussion."

Lydia forced every word out in perfect agitated glory. Halting his next step as she stood in front of him. Her eyes locking with his, daring him to say another word after she closed the argument. Stiles was tempted to keep it going. Just to rile up her feathers. Because nothing was sexier than watching her olive green eyes spark like the devil himself lit a fire behind them.

His train of thought was stunted. Malia's hushed voice cutting through the winter forest; "Would you two please just shut up? If the were-leopards' didn't know we were here before, they do now."

The sound of the others trudging forward still wasn't enough to make him stop looking at the girl in front of him. Lydia broke first. Infamous eye roll accompanying her next words.

"You sure, Stiles didn't do that when he fell a mile back?"

"What are you trying to imply, Lyds?"

"You yelped like a woman."

Stiles felt his ego bruise and his pride swell. He had the perfect comeback ready. He just never got the chance to use it.

A baritone bass of grumbles sounded from all directions. Stiles head wiped around furiously, his ears straining to pinpoint an origin of at least one. They rose up like a chorus of impending doom around them. The mountains adding to the ambiance of terror that shrouded through his bones.

"Tighten up!"

Scott's voice fanning out to around them, embedding its call into their very bones. Not one of them questioned the order of their alpha. All eight of their movements became in sync. Closing in until they formed a tight circle.

"I can't get a read on where it's coming from," Braeden bellowed, cocking her infamous shotgun for added affect.

"That's because it's coming from everywhere," Liam bit back.

"Oh, really? I hadn't noticed," came Braeden's quick reply.

"Guys, now is not the time for arguing," Scott spoke up.

His voice rose up like a father scolding his children.

"Who's arguing? I was simply stating a fact."

A snarl cut the pack's attention to their left. A rustling behind a thick layer of pine, the movement knocking snow that had kissed the prodding leaves to the ground, snapping their attention to their right.

"What are they doing? Why don't they just attack already?"

Kira's fear sent her questions trembling in the air. Her fingers playing a delicate dance on the hilt of her sword, pressing her back further into Scott's side. New sounds drew their attention in every direction.

"They're distracting us," Malia spoke up.

Her fangs and nails out; a snarl ripping free from her lips.

"From what?"

Stiles didn't register the voice. He didn't have time. Bodies flew at them from every line of view. A gnashing of fangs sending his blood into crystal white fear as were-leopards rushed in with unbelievable speed.

Scott roared; instantly making Stiles's blood pump faster with adrenaline. Instinctively, he moved his arms back, his hands searching, until they found the small arm that belonged to Lydia. Without a second thought, Stiles moved them back away from the ensuing battle. His eyes darting frantically for a safe spot and coming up empty. What a joke it was to imagine there would be anywhere safe for them.

His eyes caught sight of a large pine, its trunk wide enough to practically hide both of them. Stiles moved them towards it without giving it much thought. Well, all thought except one: he wasn't a coward and neither was Lydia. Stiles always hated being the weakest link. Hating that he could never do more than just solve puzzles and decipher the clues. But the truth of the matter was simple. He was simply human; a casual liability. Even though Lydia wasn't necessarily all that human, she basically was, making her just as much of a liability as he was.

When they reached the base of the pine Stiles released his hold he'd kept on her arm. Immediately turning his sights to the snow covered forest floor. There had to be something, anything, he could use to defend his friends and himself.

As he was about to drop to his knees in search of a weapon, a cat-like howl sounded. It was such a high pitched, frantic sound, that it tore his attention back up to the mosh pit of bodies a few feet in front him.

Malia was baring her fangs down at a girl who couldn't have been much older than they were now. Twenty, maybe? Twenty-two if he was really trying to push it. The girl, with ratted hair tied so deep in knots they looked like braids covering half her face. The arm Malia didn't have a hold of flailing around, trying to land a hit anywhere. Malia's hands were bracing her down. One hand stabilizing her by her shoulder, the other wrapped fingers dug in so tightly to her forearm Stiles swore they were about to meld together. Stiles continued to watch as Malia snapped the arm back, wincing, as the bone jutted through skin.

The girl went from feral snarling to screaming in agony within seconds. The noise reaching an octave that Stiles fought to cover his ears from to shield it from the sound.

In a blur of motion a leopard popped, seemingly like magic, slamming into view as it collided with Malia. The two bodies molding briefly in the fall before separating as they landed in the cold snow _._ The new leopard, this one male, didn't waste any time seizing the moment and getting on top of her. Malia's arms barely made it up in time to shield her neck as he tried to take a chunk out of her jugular.

"Lia!"

Stiles wanted to run in and save her. Knock the guy off of her but he needed a weapon. Something to at least give him enough courage to feel like he wasn't in over his head. Frantically, his eyes and legs moved as one as he skimmed over the forest floor. His knees landing, shockingly, pain-free into the snow. His hands digging blindly down into the two-inch snow hoping he could find something.

Stiles shot a glance behind him to make sure Lydia hadn't 1) moved and 2) wasn't in any immediate danger. When Stiles was sure she had complied with 1 and was confirmed safe in number 2, he went back to focusing on brandishing a weapon.

The fight never left his peripherals. Stiles's hands already numb and stinging from being in the snow too long. Above him a branch cracked. He didn't bother to look up. The actual danger never even crossing his mind in the slightest.

"Stiles, look out!"

The shout of his name and breaking of the branch hit his ears all at once. His mind spinning as it struggled to find an appropriate reaction. A body collided with his, smashing him down completely into the snow.

Stiles was a bundle of adrenaline and fear. Both of them sending his heart into overdrive and blood pumping closer to a heart attack. His body was alive with the fire of panic that Stiles couldn't fathom how the organ just didn't explode. The sickly sound of bone breaking followed by a sharp cry of pain brought his thoughts back to reality.

Don't ask him how, but Stiles knew, without question, that the lithe body on top of him was Lydia. He knew without having to ask, that somewhere in her body something had broken. That she was still pining him down and away from the danger when it should have been him performing the act instead.

Stiles tried to move out from underneath her gently. Giving up on finding something on the ground and decided it was time to just be more practical. Sparing a glance behind him (doing his best to ignore a wincing Lydia lying flat on her back; snow melting into her exposed skin) he caught sight of the guy who'd launched himself from the tree above them. The guy was readying himself for another attack. Stiles jolted up and sprinted for the lowest branch he could see.

He heard the snarling; the vibration of a charging body giving chase through his feet. Stiles ran like his life depended on it, and it did. He knew if he fell behind by just a tiny fraction of a second, he was dead. So his lungs burned from the high altitude, lungs quivering to adjust. His feet struggling to keep from slipping in the snow. Stiles reached out his hand, his fingers barely making contact, when a force knocked him down.

What little air was in his lungs was quickly knocked loose. His body crashing into a mixture of root, dying pine leaves, and snow. Stiles registered a stinging sensation in his left shoulder but pushed it to the back of his mind. Clawed nails slicing past the cotton of his sweater and into the flesh underneath. This time his own cry of pain escaped him. Blindly lashing out with his elbow. It landed on the jaw of his assailant, knocking them off just enough to let him turn off his stomach.

The force of the tackle sent the branch he'd been able to snap free from the trunk of the tree was only a few inches away. Without much thought he lurched forward. Fingers barely having time to wrap around the sticky bark before he felt a tug on his ankle.

Stiles didn't think; all thought evaporated as he kicked his ankle free. He rose from the ground and swung the newly acquired weapon. Landing a blow directly to the side of the head of the rabid boy that stood in front of him. The force behind the blow cracking the branch in his hands.

He swallowed the regret, the shame, at the remembrance of doing the same a few months back. Except instead of the uneven feel of scaled wood, it had been the cool metal of a wrench.

The boy lay motionless at his feet. His back was burning as the cold air touched the fresh wound. A ghost pain in his shoulder made him wince. Stiles's mind telling him it was long since healed, but it didn't stop his hand from absently touching the old wound. Now isn't the time, he told himself. Diverting his eyes away from the motionless boy and back to where he'd left Lydia.

Lydia. Oh, god Lydia. His eyes found her in milliseconds. Tear streaked face and hands reaching for her booted ankle. Stiles rushed back to her side, never letting go of the branch, as he slide into home next to her.

"Stiles," she gasped. "I think it's broken."

"It's alright, Lyds. I'm gonna get you out of here."

Bending on his knees he gingerly slide one arm underneath her, the other underneath her shoulders. He gave her a silent count, giving her time to brace herself for the lift. Stiles hated himself when she whimpered. He knew it couldn't be helped as he cradled her close to his chest, moving fast away from the on-going danger.

He remembered seeing a cabin off to the right of the path they'd taken up. It couldn't have been more than a mile tops. Every step he took making a strangled groan sound between pink lips.

"Don't think about the pain."

"Oh sure, how easy that'll be."

Even though her voice was weak, the bit in her words chilled his bones more than the winter air. He glanced around his neck checking it for imaginary wounds.

"What-in the hell-are you doing?"

"Checking for my head. Thought you bit it off back there."

A snort, a freaking snort, left her as she cradled her head into his shoulder.

"Shut up, Stilinski."

The rest of the walk was quiet. Stiles muscles shaking under the strain of cold and Lydia's weight. His nerves on high alert as he looked for the cabin and impending danger. He was starting to wonder if he had imagined the stupid cabin. When he saw its rustic wooden beams peak behind rows of winter pines, he couldn't stop the exhausted laughter.

Stiles willed his legs to move faster, coming to the door within a matter of seconds. He was both grateful and suspicious when he found the door wasn't locked. Using his back, not caring about the shriek of agony his cuts gave him, he pushed his way inside. The place looked better on the outside.

Years' worth of dust coated every piece of furniture, curtains, and the floorboards. Inch thick, if he had to guess, by the way his feet left behind elaborate footprints of his shoes. Stiles sat her gently down on the cot making sure her ankle was elevated before he started his search.

Stiles noticed it then. His right hand and a few fingers were speckled with blood. The front of his shirt sharing the same design. But he didn't think. He figured it had to be his cuts, his blood. God, how stupid could he have been for not noticing it sooner? How goddamn stupid?

Stiles set to work rummaging around the survival nut's cabin. He was sure that was the sort of person who'd occupied it at one point. Candles and matches were scattered around next to endless cans of military rations. Stiles lit a few candles and carried one with him to help him see better. The windows were boarded over and barely let in any of the light from outside. His hands scrambled frantically through drawers and cabinets. Even the couch cushions, which, don't ask him why. In the bathroom he came across a few items that left him scratching his head but he didn't question it as he came back out to check on her.

"All I could find was some dirty blankets with holes and Midol, which is weird."

Lydia put on a brave smile. Her eyes twinkling with mirth as she looked up at him. Lydia's mouth opened, bracing him for a witty remark, when everything snapped shut. Her eyes pinching and teeth biting lips as she fought off a scream.

Setting down the candle Stiles hands dug into the pockets of his jeans. They felt clumsy and useless as his hands fumbled to hold onto the phone. Stiles dialed in the numbers 9-1-1 and pressed the receiver to his ear. Only to hear a flat tone and the phone call end.

"What the fuck!?" he snarled. He glanced at the tower and saw no bars. Only a NO SIGNAL that felt like it jammed a knife down his throat. "Of course! No reception!"

Stiles snapped. The panic turning quickly to rage, tossing his phone violently against the wall.

"Stiles."

Lydia's voice groaned like breaking steps in an old house. She was ashen. Beads of sweat making a crown just below her hair line. That's when Stiles had finally noticed it. What he'd been too oblivious to before; an idiot in not realizing the moment he'd set her down. Blood soaked into the mattress turning it a grimy color of gangrene. Stiles was barely aware of his hands in his hair. The moisture he blinked back as the same words tumbled out of his mouth on a loop: "No. No. No."

His feet moved him towards her, dropping to his knees at her side.

"Lydia, where is it?"

Was that shaky sound him? Stiles's voice barely registered to her. Forcing him to repeat his words more than twice. Bad sign? It sure as hell felt like it.

"Lydia! Where is the wound?"

"It's on my back. I think-," she swallowed between words, "He was going to kill you so I had-"

A sharp hiss cut her words short. Stiles was attempting to be as gentle as possible, but Lydia wasn't helping him. She was literally dead weight in his hands and Stiles couldn't stand it. His eyes roamed over the ruined flower pattern of what used to be his favorite dress. Now he couldn't stand the sight of florals.

Blood had soaked through a majority of the fabric. It made it hard for his eyes to find the wounds origins. He spotted it low on her back, ironically, just a few inches to the right of the claw marks Peter Hale had given her. Four perfect indentations in her soft skin, blood flowing freely like small rivers into the drenched fabric.

"Jesus," he sobbed.

His hand skittered around the floor until his fingers grasped the edges of a torn curtain. He shook off what he could of the dust. He tore it into shreds making them small enough to work with. He bundled up two pieces of the flaky yellow fabric, before placing it underneath her. Stiles knew this wasn't enough. He needed to find a tourniquet to stop the bleeding.

Do something you idiot! DO SOMETHING! His body stirred into action before his mind. Panic spreading like a wildfire in his chest and dulling out every other sensation. Stiles found himself rummaging through cabinets and drawers he'd already gone through. Slamming and cursing as he kept coming up with nothing that he needed.

"Stiles? Stiles, what are you doing?"

"There's gotta be something in here I can use to do a blood transfusion."

"Stiles-"

"I know it'll work because I'm O positive like my mom."

"Stiles, listen to me. I can't let you do that. You'll get tetanus or worse from the things in here."

"I DON'T CARE!"

Stiles hated the look of worry that was etched on her face. He wasn't even sure how he'd noticed it. She was so goddamn pale, almost ghost-like. Her skin shimmering in transparency due to the sweat that beaded along her skin. Even her usually pink lips had lost all their color. She looked wrong. This is Lydia. This wasn't his Lydia. No…

His words choked him. His eyes betraying him with tears he couldn't stop.

"I don't care. Lydia…I'm not going to let you die."

Lydia moved to raise her hand up from her side, but she could barely do that. Stiles jumped on his heels. Teeth gnashing at his lips; wanting to wipe his tears from his face but unwilling to look away.

"Come here, please."

Lydia didn't have to ask him twice. He moved to her side but stayed standing. Not sure of where or what he was supposed to do now that he was there.

"Will you lay with me?"

She sounded scared and calm in one sentence. Her eyes pleading with him and telling him everything was going to be okay. But it wasn't. Lydia didn't ask him twice. He moved in beside her, not caring about the blood, and wrapped his arms around her.

"Jesus, Lyds, you're freezing."

Stiles drew her in closer. Leaning his back against the wall as he pulled her into his lap. Taking of his sweater as best he could. Tucking it around her small frame hoping to keep her warm. Those now dull lips smiled weakly up at him.

Blood flowed freely between his fingers. The cloth already soaked through, sending off alarms in his head. He clamped his hand tightly over the wound, hoping to stop more from leaking out. Lydia let out a small hiss and Stiles felt another kick to his gut.

"I'm sorry. Did I hurt you? I-"

"Stiles, you're okay. It doesn't really hurt anymore."

Stiles knew that wasn't a good sign. No matter how she tried to smile. No matter the lies she tried to tell him with her eyes of happy endings. Stiles knew that sentence never meant anything good. It meant she was dying. Lydia was really dying. A choked sob shuddered through his body as he held her. For the first time in the minutes he'd found out, he closed his eyes. Unable to look at her at this moment because he didn't know what to do or how to deal with the very true information.

Cool fingers traced along his chin and moved slowly to his cheek. He blinked, waiting for the white dots to leave his vision, as he realized she was comforting him. It should have been the other way around, not like this. Stiles should be the one telling her everything would be okay (even though it wasn't) and that they'd see each other once she was out of the hospital (that was never going to happen). That he would bring her, her favorite cotton candy ice cream and watch Clueless with her and later, the Notebook. Watching deleted scenes and all and listen to her recite every line like it was her life's story.

This was it. These were his last moments with her and damn it, he didn't want to waste them crying. Straightening his back he rubbed the tears from his cheeks and tried to give her a reassuring smile. They both knew it wasn't his best, but by the glint in her eyes let Stiles know she appreciated him trying.

"How about you do me a favor?"

Lydia's eyes lit up with question. A hunger for an answer following immediately after.

"What's that?"

"Recite that scene from The Notebook with me. You know, the one where they're yelling in the rain after he's taken her out on the river."

"Do I even want to know why you know that scene?"

The corner of his mouth twisted and damn it if he didn't want to just tell her.

"Does it really matter at this point in time?"

He watched as she thought about it. Deciding rather quickly that it indeed, did not matter. Stiles was about to ask how they wanted to start when Lydia answered the question indirectly.

"Why didn't you write me?"

Stiles tried to focus on the tickled expression of her eyes and not the weakness of her voice.

"Why? It wasn't over for me. I waited for you for seven years, and now it's too late."

Lydia looked up at him. Her bright eyes that reminded him of stars were slowly dimming. He could see it. Actually fucking see it while it was happening. She nudged him with her index, signaling his turn. Right, his turn.

"I wrote you three hundred and sixty-five letters. I wrote you every day for a year."

"You wrote me?"

"Yes! It wasn't over. It still isn't over."

And that was scene. Or, not really. Stiles just knew after that Noah kissed Ally. While Stiles would've liked nothing more than to kiss her, he knew now wasn't the time for it. Plus, Lydia had always made it pretty clear that they were just friends.

"You're supposed to kiss me now."

Stiles couldn't help it. He laughed. The statement was so bossy, and incredibly Lydia. Lydia smiled at him, all teeth and spirit. Stiles focused on that smile as he realized the blood that had been seeping at a steady pace from between his fingers now halted to a slow pace. Stiles couldn't figure out if that was a good thing or not.

"If I remember correctly, they both move to kiss at the same time."

"Are you sure? I don't remember it like that."

"I'm pretty sure it was fifty-fifty"

"And I'm pretty sure you were dropped on your head at birth. Also, I can't really feel my legs anymore. If I could I'd already would've kissed you."

Out of everything the only thing Stiles could focus on was the second part of that sentence. Not the last bit where she admitted she'd kiss him. Again. Willingly. Suddenly, all the small pieces of happiness he'd accumulated in the past few minutes evaporated.

"That's not good, Lyds," fucking brilliant Stilinski. "We've gotta get you out of here. We have to-"

The panic surged through him fresh and electric. Lydia cupped his face and quieted him down noticing the panic long before he did.

"Shhh, Stiles. Shut up and kiss me."

He wanted to argue. To tell her now wasn't the time for this bullshit. In the end, he told her none of that. Instead, he cupped her face gently, his eyes roaming over her face, even wanting to memorize every perfectly flawed piece of her now before he leaned down and pressed his lips to hers.

Life took on a different shade of what it meant to live and grieve in that moment. It was their second kiss. A kiss that was on purpose, not needed for medical purposes. A kiss that she, Lydia Martin, had asked him to give. It was in this moment, lips trembling, and a delicate melding of pressure, that Stiles realized Lydia loved him.

Stiles wanted to stay in such a delicate moment. Suspended in the fragile web of time of that kiss and erasing the part where he felt her lips slowly decrease in pressure. To erase the moment he opened his eyes to find hers glazed over, body slack. To erase the sobs and screams that rocked through his body like a seizure. To erase rocking her lifeless body as he sobbed into the strawberry blonde hair he loved so much, but would never see again.

* * *

By the end of it, Stiles just wanted to forget. Mr. Rostand wanted his story of loss and now he had it. He wanted to hear Stiles tell him that he was angry. At Lydia, for not telling him sooner how badly she'd been wounded. Playing the martyr all the way until the end. That he was angry with himself for being so careless; for not fighting harder to save her.

There was no living in a world without strawberry blonde hair and olive green eyes and sexy upturned smirks of triumph. Without eye rolls and quick witted comments on teachers writing a calculus problem wrong. He lived without relentless critique of his constant use of flannel and, "Seriously, you know they make other fabrics, right?" Stiles lived without soft brushes of well-manicured fingers in his palm when she would seek out his hand for comfort. He lived without her stealing the last piece of pizza and eating the toppings first.

Stiles was now forced to live in a world without Lydia Martin, and he was devastated.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry but not sorry for writing it. I hope you lovelies enjoyed it ((:


End file.
